Marry, Breed, Obey—Or Else...

Her brows once left to their own devices, have been plucked and shaped into an arch that makes her expression seem thoughtful and....calculating.

And her eyes...

A deep, stormy grey, the shade of the sky before a terrible tempest. Hooded, watchful. They do not belong to a child of the streets, to a forgotten girl who begged for scraps. These are the eyes of a woman who can make a man freeze where he stands.

Joana lowers the looking glass.

That is what the Mother saw in her.

That is why she was chosen

Her first day in the harem begins in the hush of dawn.

Joana wakes early, her fingers deftly working through the familiar routine of brushing and braiding her dark hair.

The mirror before her reflects a face both pale and tense, her eyes searching for reassurance where none exists.

She wore a simple green dress; it was different from the silks and velvets she imagined she would soon be required to wear.

The quiet of the morning is soon broken by the arrival of two serving girls; their movements are efficient and silent as they pack her few belongings.

Five dresses, all gifts from the Mother. Twice as many linen shifts, folded with care. Seven pairs of shoes, each more elegant than anything she has owned before. The sight of her life being neatly gathered into bundles unsettles her.

There is no returning from this moment.

Meria arrives soon after, her ever-present staff tapping lightly against the polished floor as she gestures for Joana to follow.

They leave the familiar rooms behind, passing through the winding halls that lead to the heart of the harem. The corridors are lined with tapestries and gilded lanterns, the scent of burning incense growing stronger with each step. The reality of her situation presses upon her chest, heavy and inescapable.

Joana comes to a halt before a pair of towering, intricately carved doors. Her breath hitches. She knows that once she steps through them, she will not leave again—except to be married off to one of the Emperor's men, or to witness the accession of a son she has not yet even conceived. Both futures seem impossibly distant, shrouded in years yet to come.

She glances at Meria, her voice barely above a whisper. "I suppose I have already agreed," she murmurs. "There is no turning back now, is there?"

Meria's expression remains unreadable. "No," she says simply, tapping her staff once against the floor.

The doors swing open.

A wave of perfume-laden air washes over Joana, mingling with the murmurs of conversation that instantly hush at her entrance. The women of the harem turn their eyes upon her, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild disdain.

She moves forward cautiously, drinking in her surroundings. The vast chamber is draped in silk, the floor strewn with embroidered pillows and plush seating. At the center of it all sits the Gracious Mother, robed in deep red, her golden hem pooling around the carved wooden seat of honor.

Around her, the highest-ranking women of the harem lounge practiced elegance.

Joana's gaze lingers on the three imperial ladies.

Lady Margaery Tyrell, with her cascade of soft brown curls escaping the edges of her veil, cradles a tiny princess in her lap. Elaena, just a year old, nestles against her, her silver curls bouncing as she fusses with her fingers. Margaery's eyes, warm brown yet shrewd, flicker over Joana with cool calculation.

Beside her, Desmera Redwyne's auburn tresses glow in the candlelight, her freckled complexion giving her a youthful, almost deceptively innocent appearance. Then there is Myrcella, her golden hair gleaming, her green eyes gentle but observant.

None of these women are favorites of the Emperor, their status owed more to birth than affection. But Lady Margaery—wealthy, clever, and still favored—remains the most dangerous among them.

Joana reaches the Gracious Mother and kneels, pressing her lips to the golden hem of her robe.

"Gracious Mother," she says reverently, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. "I thank you for this great and honorable opportunity."

The Mother regards her with an inscrutable smile. "Welcome, Joana." Her voice carries through the chamber with effortless authority. "Stand, so we may see you properly."

Joana obeys, rising with careful grace.

The Mother's gaze sweeps over the assembled women, her smile never faltering. "Behold our Emperor's newest concubine—Joana Noard. I trust we will all treat her with kindness, as one of our own."

A murmur ripples through the gathered ladies, some nodding, others merely watching in silence.

Margaery says nothing, but her lips curve into something that is neither a smile nor a frown. Her arms tighten slightly around the infant on her knee, as if in a reminder of the power she still holds.

"Meet my daughter, Princess Rhaenys," the Mother continues, motioning to the poised young woman at her side. Joana takes in her regal bearing, her presence commanding even in stillness.

"And our Princess Daenerys."

Joana's gaze shifts to the other princess, whose silver-gold hair catches the light like spun moonlight. The weight of their scrutiny settles upon her shoulders.

The two princesses could not be any more different.

Rhaenys, the elder of the two, is Dornish like her mother, with deep black eyes that hold a quiet intensity and slick dark hair hidden beneath a translucent golden veil. She is draped in deep red and gold, the colors of her lineage, her presence exuding the effortless confidence of someone who has never once questioned her place in the world.

Beside her, Daenerys is an ethereal contrast. She is pale, her skin smooth as marble, her violet eyes shimmering like amethysts beneath the soft glow of the chamber's lanterns. Dressed in flowing purple silks that mirror the shade of her gaze, she looks almost otherworldly, a figure pulled from myth rather than flesh and blood.

She straightens her spine. She may be the newest addition to this world, but she refuses to be swallowed whole by it.

Her life in the harem has begun.